The Art of Travelling

May 3rd, 5:42pm

Today was an excellent lesson in the unpredictability of travel and the value of an extra change of clothes in one's carry-on. Bearing in mind the consequence of a missed flgiht and even worse, the looming threat of going through security, Robby and I arrived at the Orlando airport three hours earlier than our expected departure time. Within this span of three hours, we encountered a multitude of characters. We were greeted with smiles and personal anecdotes of Ireland and young travels at check-in and continued onto our terminal with mixed emotions of shock at our reception and anticipation of what was to come. Upon sitting down, we encountered "Ice Cube". Ice Cube, in a painfully monotonous gravel, expressed his disdain at his two missed flights and his partying habits in Orlando that effected his tardiness. He informed us of his jaunts around the state nearly three times. As he continued to mumble and Robby and my patience grew consistently thinner, we encountered what is sure to be the most emotionally abusive couple I've ever experienced. They were toting their friend's ashes in a carry-on and continued to remind each other of their ineptitudes and their selfishness. She was nearing 300lbs with a wheeze and a wheelchair and he was just north of 150lbs with a leather jacket and scarred cheek. Needless to say, their banter kept us entertained until we were fortunate enough to entertain the presence of "The Pembroke Pedophile". This older man had the mental capacities of a 6-year old and continued to reveal personal facts that I wish he chose to censor. When I complimented his cookie choice, he informed me that his mother was a diabetic; when I noted his tennis racket, he mentioned that he nearly drowned in his youth at camp; when I looked at Robby's Ipod, desperately seeking some solace or entertainment, he told me "I like where you live...Pembroke Pines". My first instinct was to run to the next terminal but I quickly recognized that he was merely-creepily, nonetheless- reading my luggage tag. When he and Ice Cube befriended each other, each topping each other with more personal, irrelevant revelations, Robby and I were subjected to the affections of a strikingly awkward couple across from us. Their appearance suggested a father-daughter relationship but their level of affection suggested otherwise.

The flight was a roller coaster. People around us succumbed to their motion sickness, creating an aroma that made it all the more difficult to convince myself that I did not need a sick bag. We exited the plane, thankful for ventilation and checked in for our next flight. Upon eating our "Last American Meal" of take-out Chinese, Robby yielded the call from his mom informing us of our cancelled flight. The remaining ash from the Icelandic volcanic eruption was blocking access into Ireland, thus cnacelling flights up until the next night. The rest of our group arrived in disarray. We exhausted the resources in the food court while we waited for word from our group leaders. A disorganized 4 hours later and two Auntie Anne's cinnamon-sugar pretzels in, we were told to find our own lodging and transport from the airport.

As Newark airport borders the state prison, we naturally opted for a jaunt into New York City. We hired a bus from the airport, drove into Times Square and took the Subway into Manhattan. The Subway was wrought with sights: school children ignorant of their midnight curfew warning us that the train would never stop, homeless women yelling into non-existent cell phones and angry conductors marvelling at our ineptitudes when it came to public transport. Surviving the trip, we made it to our hotel and spent the rest of the night exploring Manhattan, courting the club culture and discovering the best all-night food spots in town. For future reference, Kool Bloo has the most amazing french fries my jet-lagged body has ever had.